


If you were to eat me, I would call it love

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism Play, Dom/sub Undertones, Erotic cannibalisitc thoughts, Infatuation, M/M, Masochism, Obsession, Power Dynamics, Some sort of personal awakening, Stream of Consciousness, True Love, Unhealthy Relationships, no actual cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 06:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17976233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Was it wrong that Abraxas wanted Tom to eat him the way he ate his steak?





	If you were to eat me, I would call it love

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason Abraxas/Tom has escaped my move towards writing darker fics, this fic hopes to change that; as really these two are quite well-suited to darker themes. 
> 
> This is also my first time writing this sort of content not in the second person, so I hope it isn't too bad, and heed the tags because...yeah, I'm a terrible person.

Tom was unfairly gorgeous, painfully attractive, absolutely delectable. Abraxas couldn’t help it that his gaze was always drawn to Tom, no matter where they were, or who they were with, Tom would _always_ had his gaze. Though Abraxas knew he should not have been watching Tom as much as he was. There were plenty of other things he should be paying attention to, rather than the way Tom was standing, holding a glass of champagne that he wouldn’t drink. It was at times like this when Tom stoked the fires of his want without ever realising it, just a simple glance with those rotten eyes and Abraxas would start feeling himself liquifying, dissolving into the floor, because he knew he wanted Tom, wanted him a way he didn’t quite understand.  
Once, Lestrange had told him to stop drooling over things so far out of his reach, that Tom wasn’t interested in anything that didn’t involve exercising a hegemonic control over other people; it was just his nature. That hadn’t stopped him then though, and it wouldn’t stop him now. He could stare at Tom forever, and even if his eyes were gouged out, he would find a way to see him, that was just _his_ nature, to be fascinated by things he shouldn’t, and when he saw something he wanted, he wouldn’t stop until he got it. No matter how long he had to wait.  
None of that detracted from the fact that he should not want _anyone_ this much, let alone Tom. It was pathetic really. He was a Malfoy. He didn’t need anyone, especially not a half-blood with absolutely nothing to his name, and yet, he just couldn’t stop thinking about Tom. Absolutely everything he did, involved him in some way or another, from studying to socialising, Tom was a permanent and immovable feature. Not to mention, he had consciously added to his torment by inviting Tom to stay with him for the holidays. There was really no excuse he could think of, and his only justification was that it would give him ample time to stare at every perfect inch of him.  
He had to wonder to what extent Tom was aware of his charms. Did he understand what so many people would do to themselves just have some time alone with him? Abraxas did not like to include himself with those pathetic infatuates, that giggled and twirling fingers through their hair, hoping to entice Tom with their lack of substance. He was above them at least, even if his eyes lingered too long, and his mouth was so dry when Tom deigned to rest his eyes on him.  
Even now, did he know how flawless he looked? How people twice his age stared at him for too long? Did he even care? Or did he love revelling in their undivided attention, willing to use his looks to get what he wanted? Really, Tom had no right to a face like that, or a body like that, everything Abraxas liked rolled into one. It was simply unbearable.  
The worst thing though was how perfect he looked all the time, and him currently standing across the room in the swathes of the party was no exception. Tom was listening to someone, neck tilted back, clearly, to anyone who knew him, waiting to verbally disintegrate his interlocutor. Part of Abraxas knew he should step in before it happened, after all, it was his job to keep Tom from making people realise their own stupidity. But he couldn’t quite be bothered. Tom looked good when he was systematically taking people apart. He also looked good from this angle, the suit Abraxas had told him to wear, clinging to all the right places. It was red. Just vivid enough to catch people’s eyes, but subtle enough not to turn their heads. It brought to the surface everything he loved about Tom’s appearance, and yes, making Tom wear it had been an exercise in hedonistic self-indulgence in its purest form.  
The victory was hollow though. There should have been power in making Tom wear what Abraxas wanted, dressing and adorning him to suit his own selfish whims, but Abraxas could get no pleasure from it. Not when Tom had such a presence, an aura that commanded respect regardless of what he was wearing. A gorgeous suit only made it stronger, made him unbearably erotic to look at, turning his every movement into something complete indecent, so much so, that Abraxas had to avert his eyes whenever Tom walked past him.  
He looked away for a second, grabbing a drink from a waiter’s tray, and when he looked back, Tom was alone and watching him. He seemed to do that a lot. Taking pleasure from knowing Abraxas found it painful to look at him. Or perhaps, he was thinking of the cruellest way to break his heart, because Tom was like that, he thrived on other people’s misfortune.  
Maybe Abraxas shouldn’t be surprised then that Tom’s attention seemed to make flowers grow in his lungs. Seemed to make him choke on their petals and suffocate as their roots spread; spending more time around him only made the flowers grow quicker. Only made his misfortunes grow and Tom’s satisfaction increase. A small part of him wanted to cut those flowers out, remove everything that Tom made him feel, but he knew he was already addicted, and that he’d never survive without access after access to his next dose of poison.  
They stayed like that, staring across the room at each other until the bell rang for dinner.  
~  
It was a terribly formal event, and as such his mother had insisted on a limited number of rowdy teenagers. So, it was just him and Tom. They sat opposite each other for dinner. Tom quickly sitting down and touching the cutlery, running his fingers over it, intrigued by the things he’d never seen before. As he did so, he licked his lips with the very tip of his tongue. Once again, Abraxas averted his eyes, but the damage was already done, and his mind happily supplied plenty of alternative uses for Tom’s tongue. The one got his heart pounding though, were images of Tom heavy against his back, tongue trailing down his spine, slicing through the skin and cutting straight to the bone. Tom’s tongue sliding between his vertebras sounded horrifically sexual. It made him feel something he didn’t really understand, a deep wanting, craving, needing for something he couldn’t name, and it was so distracting, the only thing he could think about, forever buzzing around his brain no matter how much he tried to get rid of it. He realised he did it again when the waiter tapped his shoulder politely and repeated the question: red wine or white? He looked up. White. Tom chose red. Their eyes met across the table when he took a sip, throat moving obscenely. There was always something about the way Tom moved, it was so fluid, like water running over rocks, slowly grinding them down until they ran _his_ course.  
When he curled his lips into that smile, however hollow it was, Abraxas had to clench his fist, force his nails into his palm just to stop himself doing something stupid, like embedding those nails in Tom’s cheekbones or, even worse, his tongue in Tom’s mouth. He didn’t realise he’d broken the skin of his palms, until he raised his hands to drink, and left a red streak across the glass. His palms were bloodied. He wiped them on the napkin, gorgeous smears of red across the white. He knew should get up and clean his hands properly, heal them. He should abandon dinner and go to lie on his bed and not think about Tom at all. But he didn’t. Instead, he stayed there, stuck to his seat with bloodied hands, staring at how Tom swallowed. It made his mouth dry, and he’d be lying if he didn’t want to trace the movement of Tom’s throat with his tongue, outline the sinews with the very tip as Tom dug his nails into the back of his neck.  
He was startled out of this fantasy by the clattering of cutlery on porcelain. Dinner had been served. He looked down at the dish, beef, rare, bloody; red seeping over the white plate. He didn’t pick up his own fork, instead, he watched Tom, whose hands held the cutlery with such poise. Gripping the silver with an elegance that made even him feel clumsy. There was nothing particularly special in the smoothness of Tom’s hands or the stretch of his fingers. They weren’t the most beautiful fingers he’d ever seen, but that didn’t stop him wanting them wrapped around his throat, feeling the tips digging into his skin, pressing into it purple bruises, ones he’d have to explain to people who wouldn’t understand how good it felt.  
Abraxas tried to focus. He really did. He tried to ignore Tom’s fingers holding the cutlery and slicing through his meat. Carving it, knife sliding back and forth and back and forth and back before it hit the plate, and Tom was raising a piece to his lips. Abraxas was certain, his father would have called it vulgar that he wanted to consume Tom, eat him the way he ate his steak. Bite into him and wrap him around his tongue, and chew on him so slowly before finally swallowing him. He didn’t know why he felt like that, and he certainly did _not_ feel it around anyone else. It was something that Tom, and Tom alone, provoked within him.  
Maybe it was the fear that Tom brought to the surface? The nervous nagging that scratched in the back of his skull? When he was near Tom, he felt like a lamb going to the slaughter. It was a novel feeling, and one no one else had ever come close to replicating. There was just something in the way Tom moved, the way he smiled, the way he spoke, that felt like he was holding a knife to everyone’s throats. Of course, the subtlety of it often meant the others never noticed, never realised quite how close to death they really were. But Abraxas did. Abraxas knew there was something so sinister sliding under Tom’s skin, a snake that came to the surface when he was defied, and it was just intoxicating. No one else ever managed to make him feel so powerless, so feeble, with nothing but a look, Tom did though, Tom did with ease.  
Even now, even when Tom was eating and drinking and making polite conversation with the people beside him, there was something dark in his eyes, something ophidian and monstrous that just itched to get out. When he gazed up and saw Abraxas watching him, he did not smile, did not offer any conciliatory glance. If anything, he looked with condescension. Tom never offered him any of the respect that he should, in fact, he offered no more respect than he did to anybody else. He practically looked at him with more disdain, more contempt, more disapproval than any of the others.  
That look, that disgust should not provoke his interest as much as it did. It was wrong that he liked to be looked at as though he were nothing, but no one had ever done it before. No one else had dared to look at him like he was dirt, and now he was hooked on the feeling, as long it was Tom. If any of the others had had the audacity to act like he was beneath them, then they would find their own lives considerably more unpleasant. But not Tom. Tom could do whatever he liked.  
It was then when Tom rose that the reality dawned, he’d spent the entire of dinner watching the object of his affections, the one he was starting to want to a put knife through his stomach, and he had barely touched his food.  
~  
The reception after dinner was nice. Tasteful. The exact sort of thing to be expected from his family. Just enough class to keep the hideous wealth from becoming ostentatious and Abraxas _knew_ his wealth was hideous, especially to people like Tom. He’d seen the way Tom raised his eyebrows at everything he learnt the price of, the way he judged everything and everyone around him.  
He saw what they all knew, but never acknowledged, that they were rotten. All of them were rotten to their very cores, drowning in their excess, paying for their pleasures because it was easier than to cultivate them for themselves. They hid behind their veils of glamour and immoderation, made smiles that looked like diamonds from a distance, but when you got close, were obviously shards of glass that made their mouths bleed. Overindulgence was a simple cure to a chronic problem, an attempt to fill the emptiness that existed around them. Tom saw. Tom was not fooled by the vacant smiles and hollow conversations, because he did those things too, though he did not do them because he was bored and repulsively rich, he did them because he liked to play with people. Abraxas knew, he had always known, that Tom liked to arrange them all, playing them off each other, watching them tear one another apart whilst he sat at a decent distance and enjoyed his hard work. So here he fitted right in.  
Abraxas just liked to watch him, liked the way he wrapped people in silky spiderwebs that stung their skin and burnt their egos. He liked the way Tom seemed to know he was watching and would turn his head and glance in his direction. In those moments he wanted, more than anything, to burrow under Tom’s skin, get inside his head and just lie there, scratch his nails over the edges, peel back the fray and find what lovely sickening things Tom kept hidden away inside his head. The razor-sharp intelligence, the infinite darkness, the monstrous things he never shared with any of them, because he knew Tom kept secrets. There was just something in the way he looked, the way he smiled, that suggested he knew things none of them ever would. Not that Abraxas was _that_ interested in learning all Tom’s secrets, he would much rather have Tom’s nails digging into his stomach, spilling blood between his thighs, trying to root out the thing that made him so insufferable in his eyes. He’d much rather have Tom’s fingers hooking under his skin and his teeth at his neck and – Abraxas stopped that line of thought. This was not the place to be having it. If he wanted to have those thoughts he should go to his room and lie on his back and stare at the ceiling and touch himself until the pain in his stomach receded.  
He had been so busy thinking, he didn’t notice Tom approaching him, didn’t notice him at all, until Tom brushed past him, colliding with his shoulder and dragging his nails over Abraxas’s wrist. It was only for a second, and yet, his heart was pounding, and he could feel an uncomfortable flush spreading down his neck. His wrist throbbed as though it had been stung by wasps. Maybe it had? He wouldn’t put it past Tom to do something like that. He could be cruel when he wanted to be, it wasn’t like Abraxas didn’t know about the things that happened to people Tom didn’t like. He still remembered when Mulciber had collapsed from that ever so rare form of poisoning. He hadn’t been the same afterwards, learnt to keep his mouth shut more and his opinions to himself. Nor could he forget when Nott’s hand had been burnt, he said it was an accident in potions, but Nott would never make a mistake like that, and even now he wouldn’t look Tom in the eye. There was never anything overtly wrong, just a hundred little things that didn’t feel quite right in a way he couldn’t explain. Nonetheless, he wasn’t blind, he knew Tom wasn’t exactly sugar and spice, but that didn’t stop him from wanting another hit of him, a high from being around him. Tom was simply one of those people who was too addictive to give up.  
~  
Before Abraxas could protest though, Tom was gone, gone to entertain someone else with his charms, perhaps. To make other people wish they were younger and far more accomplished. He couldn’t help searching, first with his eyes and then with his feet. Wandering aimlessly between groups, looking for him like some pathetic lost soul.  
Normally he’d be able to shake the feeling that had engulfed him during dinner, but today felt different. The gnawing in the bottom of his stomach wasn’t leaving, only churning, turning itself over and over until it was painful. There was something clawing at him, making him want things that he really shouldn’t.  
Abraxas was giving up hope of getting what he wanted, when he saw Tom just standing still, watching him with those appalling eyes. After a moment of watching each other, Tom put his glass down on a table and trailed his fingers along the tablecloth, before disappearing into the swarm of people. Abraxas knew he shouldn’t, but that didn’t stop him. He copied Tom’s direction and caught a glimpse of red disappearing into another room, and then up the stairs. He continued to follow Tom, almost unnerved by how easily he guided himself through the house, never hesitating, never getting lost. But Abraxas wasn’t stupid, and this was _his_ house, he knew exactly where they were going.  
Tom opened the door to Abraxas’ room without even bothering to glance down the corridor at him. Really Abraxas shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew how to find it, Tom had only been here a couple of days, but he’d spent them thoroughly examining everything.  
Despite rational thought suggesting it would be better to do otherwise, Abraxas still pushed open the door, it was _his_ room after all.  
He couldn’t see Tom initially, only the light from the moon cutting a square through the darkness.  
“You followed me,” said Tom, nearly scaring the life out of Abraxas. He had been leaning against the wall, just to the left of the door, and was obvious to see if you knew where to look.  
“Why wouldn’t I?” Abraxas said stepping further into the room.  
Tom slid off the wall and moved closer, standing in front of Abraxas, before reaching a hand behind him to shut the door. The click made him swallow, he’d never been alone with Tom before. Not completely alone, usually there was someone else, however insignificant, sitting nearby. Even though the door was closed, Tom didn’t move away, instead, he stayed too far into Abraxas’ personal space, close enough for him to smell the cologne that he had made him wear, the one he absolutely adored.  
“I’ve seen you, all of you. None of you wants to be alone with me,” said Tom, still watching him.  
“I’ve never had the opportunity,” he said, trying to keep his voice level, and not give away how hard his heart was beating.  
“Are you not scared of me? What I could do to you if I wanted?”  
Abraxas raised his chin a little, and met Tom’s eyes, “I could do just as bad if _I_ wanted,” he said, hoping it sounded bolder than he felt. He knew he could match Tom’s skill in many areas, but unlike Tom, he had to put up with a, sometimes uncooperative, conscience.  
For far too long, they stayed too close together, holding each other’s eyes, Tom’s hand hovering close to his hip. Much longer than friends or even enemies would.  
Tom broke the circle. “You wouldn’t,” he said, stepping away and turning to face the window. Abraxas exhaled more sharply than he should, given they had only been staring each other.  
“How can you be so certain?” he said, inviting a challenge when he shouldn’t, more to see how Tom would react than anything else.  
Tom turned back to face him, features clouded by the dark. “How can I be certain? Because you’re scared, Abraxas.”  
Abraxas stepped forward, coming into the middle of the room, “I think we’ve already established that I’m not.”  
Although his face was blurred, he saw Tom smile, and Abraxas felt a jolt in his stomach, somewhere between pleasure and pain.  
“Not of me perhaps,” said Tom, still smiling, “but rather, you’re scared of yourself. Scared of how good it might feel for me to retaliate and do something very painful to you. That’s what you’re scared of, the things you want. The things you try and convince yourself are no more than fleeting passions, but you know in your heart they’re not.”  
Abraxas stared at Tom in silence, hating him for so simply putting into words what he had been grappling with for months, for so quickly finding out the thing that was eating him up inside, but that was _Tom_ all over. Ever since they’d met, he’d seemed to have been effortlessly able to work out what Abraxas was feeling, and why he was feeling it. Almost as though he could just go straight into his head and rummage around. Maybe he did? Abraxas knew he could if he wanted. He’d seen Tom do it to Lestrange when the latter was being particularly irritating. It had only been a degree of trust that made him assume Tom wouldn’t do that to him. That trust was starting to wear awfully thin.  
What was perhaps worse though, was that Tom was right, so very right. As much as Abraxas tried to deny it to himself, he _did_ want to hear his bones crack under Tom’s hands. He wanted those hands around his throat, and those nails digging into his skin, pushing everything a little too far. It was disgusting, but the thought of it did something to him. Twisted his stomach and made him feel sick in a brilliant sort of way.  
~  
Tom was still watching him in amusement, “you know, you never struck me as a masochist, I always thought that was more Avery’s thing than yours.”  
“I’m not one,” Abraxas said too fast, and he wasn’t.  
Tom laughed and sat down on the window seat, legs parted just enough to be suggestive of something else entirely, “then you’re a liar as well.”  
Abraxas didn’t move, there was nowhere for him to go, he couldn’t just walk out, then he’d never be able to face Tom again. “I derive no pleasure from pain,” he said eventually, though he knew it too formal and answered nothing.  
“Don’t you?”  
“No.”  
Tom smirked. “Oh, I think you do, Abraxas. You torture yourself every time you look at me, every time you stare, and you see something you so desperately want, but don’t know how to get your hands on.” Tom was standing now. “You torture yourself, and you love it. Love how it makes you feel, love what it does to you.” Tom walked slowly towards him. Abraxas could have stepped back, but he didn’t. He just stayed open and exposed in the centre of the room.  
“You adore the curling in your stomach, don’t you? You adore that need I awaken inside you. And it hurts, it hurts so much, doesn’t it?” Tom’s hand touched the back of his neck, and Abraxas ground his molars together in a pathetic attempt to gain a semblance of control.  
“Is this love, Abraxas?”  
Abraxas squeezed his eyes shut, he didn’t want to be having this conversation. Didn’t want to be admitting the thing he knew in his heart was true. Perhaps if he closed his eyes and willed hard enough, then Tom would read his thoughts and get the message, understand that he just wanted to be left alone in his suffering.  
“I’m not leaving,” said Tom, “not when this is only just starting to get interesting.”  
Abraxas could feel Tom’s nails digging into the back of his neck, the pads of his fingers pressing hard against his spine. When he dared to look up at Tom, his eyes were black in the dark, and Abraxas had an overwhelming urge just to drown in them. To be enveloped in the dark, sinking slowly down to die at the bottom, comforted by nothing but the endless crush. In that moment, Abraxas couldn’t decide if he wanted to eat Tom himself, or whether he wanted Tom to eat him. Just thinking of Tom’s white teeth stained red with his blood made his stomach ache that much more. To think of Tom swallowing mouthfuls of his body made his own swallowing hard, and his face uncomfortably hot. He just wanted it to be slow and painful and gorgeous. He just wanted to be swathed in the sensations of it all, feeling every one of his nerves burning because of Tom’s teeth.  
As if in response, Tom loosened the grip of his nails, and trailed his hand around Abraxas’ throat, undoing the top button of his collar. Tom looked at him then, and Abraxas saw in his eyes what, he suspected, would be the closest thing to Tom asking for permission to continue. He nodded, biting his tongue and hoping he wasn’t being completely irresponsible, putting his life in Tom’s, not always careful, hands.  
Perhaps reading his concerns, Tom’s hands were ever so careful, ever so soft, ever so persuasive as they undressed him. Pushing his jacket into a heap on the floor. Before dextrous fingers slid his shirt buttons from their holes, without Tom ever dropping his eyes.  
The air was cold on his skin, but Tom’s hands were burning, scalding on his bare flesh, searing fingerprints right down to his bones. Tom didn’t touch him though, not deliberately at least, the only contact between them was the slide of his fingers as they dragged his shirt over his shoulders, and the dig of his nails into his waist. The clink of his belt was so loud in the silence, leather sliding like a snake from around his hips, and when Tom undid the zip of his trousers, the tips of his fingers scraping over his underwear, Abraxas put his teeth through his lip. Red oozed over white skin, a dribbling cascade, hot on his chin. That caught Tom’s attention. He dragged his thumb through the flow before raising it, he paused long enough to smile at Abraxas, before licking the blood away, swirling his tongue around it and sucking for too long.  
“You’ll be glad to know, you taste gorgeous,” Tom murmured, running his tongue over his teeth, tinging them with red. Abraxas swallowed again, and couldn’t do anything to stop his pulse intensifying when Tom got to his knees, hands scorching lines down his hips, nails making agonizing pink lines down his thighs. Tom continued to be far too gentle as he raised Abraxas’ leg, unlacing his expensive shoes and tossing them away carelessly, before slowly peeling off his socks far too intimately.  
“You know, if you wanted me to undress you could have just said,” he found himself choking out.  
Tom looked up at him, “tell me where the fun in that would be?” When Abraxas said nothing, he smirked, “see, that’s why.”  
Abraxas just glared at him, there was nothing else to do.  
When he naked apart from his underwear, Tom moved away and sat again on the window seat, legs parted, fingers resting on his thigh. His entire body was shrouded in the black and looking more than human. He stayed there watching for long enough that Abraxas felt self-conscious, which wasn’t right because he wasn’t usually insecure about himself. But he’d be lying to say he didn’t like it, that constant burn of embarrassment, of losing control, of simply being used.  
“Kneel for me, would you,” Tom said after a while more, gesturing the spot between his thighs.  
It was an appalling request, but Abraxas still did it. He kneeled, gazing upward at Tom as if he were an idol, which was probably exactly what Tom wanted. He felt so common down on his knees, it was such a heady feeling to be brought so low so easily. To know that whatever anyone said, his station could be taken away, just as easily as it had been given to him.  
He tensed when Tom’s fingers stroked his hair, winding a strand around his finger before unravelling it and starting again. Tom’s fingers felt far too nice on his scalp, drawing little circles even when they were intertwined with Abraxas’ hair, giving him something far too intimate, far too personal. Slowly, those fingers slid downward, over the helix of his ear and over his jaw before tracing along his collarbones and back up his neck, nails digging into his skin, dragging along and making him tremble in a way that was entirely inappropriate.  
“What do you want to do to me?” Tom asked, lazily forcing Abraxas’ head against his thigh.  
At the beginning of the evening, Abraxas had been certain that he wanted to be the one eating Tom, now though… “I – I don’t know,” he said, dropping his eyes to the floor, examining in great detail the colour of the wooden skirting that ran along the bottom of the window seat.  
Tom smiled, pressing his thumb harder into Abraxas’ jaw, “let me rephrase it then: what do you want me to do to you?  
Abraxas dragged his eyes up to look at Tom, the light coming through the window and outlining him in a pale aureole, like a god. He swallowed. He didn’t want to utter the words that were buzzing around his brain, but it was now or never to get what he knew, deep in his stomach, he wanted. “I think I want you to eat me,” he said, trying to hold Tom’s gaze.  
Tom’s smile widened, all teeth, no joy. “Oh Abraxas,” he said, raising his hand to hold his cheek, “you know I would love to do that to you, but I can’t.”  
Abraxas bit his lip again, almost comforted by the warmth of blood oozing into his mouth. “Why not?” he said, hearing his own voice crack in a pathetic sort of way.  
Tom’s hand briefly went to Abraxas’ chin and pulled his head back up before, leaning closer and wetting his lips, “because I still need you,” he murmured, “you’re too special to die, Abraxas.”  
With that Tom’s fingers dug into his cheekbones and Abraxas had to close his eyes, had to pretend he wasn’t completely coming apart at the seams without even a promise to show for it.  
“Will you? One day?” he said, in a way, he hoped, didn’t sound too desperate, though he knew it probably did sound like he was begging.  
Still holding his cheek with one hand, Tom used his other to raise Abraxas’ chin just a little. “If you’re asking whether I’ll take you apart, piece by piece; strip you of yourself until there’s nothing left, then yes, I will do that for you. I’ll open you up and I’ll cut out your heart, I’ll chew on it and I’ll swallow it whole; if that’s what you want. But only if you’re patient though, only if you’ll wait. Can you do that for me Abraxas? Can you wait?”  
Abraxas nodded too quickly, still with his eyes closed, and a horrible sense of weakness hanging on his shoulders. It was foolish to make deals with people like Tom, people who resembled the devil, uncomfortably closely. Though that didn’t stop him pressing his mouth against Tom’s when it was offered. Nor did it stop him thinking of all the things he’d like to do, bite Tom’s lip too hard and keep kissing him with the taste of blood staining his tongue  
~  
Below them the party continued, music still played, and the sounds of people’s dancing and chattering and laughing filtered through the floorboards. None of them could hear how loud Abraxas moaned when Tom pressed him against the mattress, one hand on his lower back, the other against his neck. Nails being used far too liberally, and his tongue dragging along Abraxas’ spine. None of them heard what wretched sounds he made when Tom slowly fucked him, letting him feel everything he’d been wanting for so long. None of them could hear him cry out when Tom wrapped his hand around his throat and pulled his head back, and how Abraxas’ voice cracked as he begged for him to snap his neck. No one heard because no one was listening.  
Tom didn’t break his neck, Tom didn’t break anything. He was far too slow, painfully indolent, dragging it all out for much too long. Making Abraxas feel _everything_ until it was too much. Though even then Tom’s pace was unhurried, bordering on lazy even, touching him just enough to make him want satisfaction more than anything else, and never quite enough to let him have it. Tom just let him linger in his grotesque fantasies, imagining, dreaming, envisaging, that Tom’s teeth would stop grazing his neck and just sink into it, that his hands would slide under his ribcage, slide into the spaces between them, and pull him back harder. That was what he wanted, what he really, truly, wanted, and Tom must have known how much it hurt to want it, as he pushed his nails into the soft skin just below Abraxas’ ribs, and pressed his mouth against his neck.  
“Is that what you want, Abraxas? Me breaking your skin, sliding my fingers inside you,” Tom hooked his hand under Abraxas’ ribs, “do you want me to tear you open? Let all those sickening things that lurk inside you out, because they are _sickening_.” Abraxas tried to bury his head further into the pillow, but Tom only dragged it back up, “when the time comes, I’ll have you on your back, and I’ll do it all with my hands. Open you up so slowly, make you absolutely beg for it. I’ll start so shallow,” as if to emphasise it Tom slid a fingernail down from his ribs and over his stomach, “it won’t be enough to satisfy you, only to see the blood start flowing. Enough to sting, enough for me to draw pretty patterns, enough to make your head wish it would stop, but your body to want it more. You’ll have to watch when I put my fingers into you, stretch you; you’ll see yourself coming apart at the seams. Will you want me to use my tongue?” Tom paused to mouth lethargically at Abraxas’ neck, all tongue and no teeth. “I will if you want me to, want me to taste you properly before I give you what you’ll be aching for: me pressing deeper inside you, until my fingers are wrapped around your heart because you’re still so sentimental aren’t you, Abraxas? And don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re still alive to watch me eat it.” Abraxas moaned at that image probably of Tom’s concoction, searing into his head. It was grotesque and monstrous and absolutely erotic. Tom leaning over him, his white shirt stained red, his chin coated in blood as he licked Abraxas’ heart as it still beat inside his body. He wanted to sob, wanted it not to make his stomach twist, but it did, it twisted, and it twisted, and it hurt, and it just felt so good that he had to reach a hand between his thighs. Tom stopped him, pressing the hand instead against his abdomen. He felt Tom smile again at his neck. “You haven’t let me tell you about the best part yet,” he murmured, “how I’ll take my time, tell you how you taste, the intricacies of your flavour, and the texture of you on my tongue. I’ll let you touch my throat as I swallow, feel yourself slide into me. Is that what you want so badly?” Abraxas groaned, biting the inside of his cheek, and nodding uselessly. He was sure Tom was smirking when he pressed into him again, his hand still trapping his own, “do you want to be reminded how sick you are?” Abraxas nodded again, “Do you want me to help you ruin these sheets? Make everyone know what you’ve been doing? Make everyone understand how depraved you really are?” Tom murmured, rocking their bodies even slower.  
It felt like forever before Tom sank his teeth into Abraxas’ shoulder. Immediately it began to throb, the pain intense and sharp and oh so good. The wound stung just right, and Tom dug his teeth in deeper, and licked with the very point of his tongue, pressing into the teeth-marks in such an exquisite way that had Abraxas shuddering. He came to red blood coiling around his neck and dripping onto the white sheets, spreading like pretty, poisonous, flowers.  
~  
Lying there later, with Tom’s body still wrapped around him, flecks of blood on his shirt, Abraxas knew there was something deeply wrong with him. Lying there, with the light trickling through the window and Tom’s fingers stroking his hair, he knew the horrendous truth. Lying there with the sounds of music below, he knew Tom understood him, more than anyone else ever would; so it was love, the worst type of love imaginable.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little sorry I wrote this, it's very self-indulgent, and I'm a little sorry that you had to read it, I didn't realise how cannibalismy it was until I was editing, and by that point, I was posting it regardless. Sorry.


End file.
